


How To Tame A Monster - A Guide by Stiles Stilinski

by AmyArachne



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Crazy Peter, M/M, Peter's a little bit nuts, Rating will go up when more chapters are posted, Set after Season 4, Some touch starved Stiles later on, Stiles is a little bit lonely, Very Vague Stiles/Malia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-04
Updated: 2015-08-16
Packaged: 2018-04-02 21:49:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4075051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmyArachne/pseuds/AmyArachne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter's in Eichen House and Stiles goes to rub Peter's nose in his failure. Things don't go as planned. </p><p>Or </p><p>How To Tame a Monster - A Guide by Stiles Stilinski. A step by step method to reduce murder sprees, allow for communication and coaxing back sanity in just a few easy steps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Steps 1-3

**Author's Note:**

> So, this was a random bug that bit me and now it's this. I fell hard and deep into the Steter ship, and have a blog, reincarnatedalpha, that I generally freak out about steter on and every AU that pops into my head. 
> 
> So there's a bit of touch starved Stiles in this fic, but that only comes later. Peter's unstable at first, so if you're sensitive to descriptions of self harm and mental illness, you may want to avoid this fic. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy.

****

1\. Have Absolutely No Intention Of Doing So

The first visit was meant to be for gloating. Stiles knows that, looking back, he is sure of his original intentions. He went back to the asylum to rub it in Peter’s face, to sneer outside of the glass and tell him that they’d won. That Derek wasn’t around to vouch for him anymore, that Cora was long gone and that he was going to rot there for the rest of his miserable, solitary existence.

Stiles knew where they’d put him, he’d even supported it, putting the psychotic, murdering power hungry bastard in with a man who could drive people insane seemed like a fitting punishment. After all, there was no innocent girl in Eichen House he could use his evil coma thoughts to brainwash.

Peter was going to suffer and he was going to deserve every moment of it. He was going to pay for what he did, to Meredith, to Lydia, to Derek, to Scott. Even Deaton, cool headed and frustratingly rational as the man was, seemed to fully endorse Peter’s torment. He had more than earned it, time and time again. And since Scott refused to just kill him, this was the next best option. He wouldn’t be able to hurt anyone again.

And yes, maybe, just maybe, Stiles wanted some good old fashioned visceral, sadistic satisfaction at seeing Peter beat. To prove to himself that they were better. That the good guys would always win and the bad guys would get what’s coming to them. That was how the world worked. Disney Channel had it right, power of friendship and all that.

So after being searched, warned off by Deaton and Scott and lectured by Lydia, Stiles entered Peter’s cell. His cellmate had been removed from the place for an ‘examination’, and Stiles did not want to risk having to plead the fifth by asking more about that. As far as he figured, everyone in this wing more than deserved to be under the scalpel of some evil scientist.

The door was sealed shut behind him, with the instruction to knock three times quickly when he wanted to leave. He expected Peter to be smirking, to be suave, to flounce around and bare his teeth in that predatory smile. Stiles had been looking forward to having to look for the desperation, the pain and suffering in his eyes. To take in overgrown hair and unclipped nails and let Peter know he wasn’t fooled. To walk right out, flip him the bird and assure him that Stiles knew just how hopeless they both knew his situation to be.

What Stiles had not been expecting was for Peter to look just as bad as he should. He was not expecting to have to look down to see the wolf, only to find him curled up in a ball, knees to his chest, hair trimmed nicely, though with his head tilted forward Stiles could easily see the deep gouges at his nape. Stiles would bet his limited edition Black Panther first appearance comic book that they were self inflicted.

Stiles had not been expecting Peter to not react to Stiles’ entrance, or how he knew he would keep his comic book, thank you very much, as he took another cautious step forward and saw that Peter’s nails were cracked, blood crusted and… missing on his pointer finger. But not cleanly, more like it had snapped off due to clawing. That was disturbing, more than a little. He didn’t have to ask why he hadn’t healed, he didn’t know anything about self inflicted wounds (tattoos seemed to heal just fine, was that considered self inflicted?), but he was also surrounded in the most anti wolf cell to have ever been built.

Whatever the fuck his cellmate did, it was not going well on Peter’s psyche. Stiles couldn’t hear, but Peter’s jaw was moving slightly, as if he was muttering to himself. The small, dark, vengeful part of Stiles rejoiced. This is what Peter deserved, this is what karma was all about. It can come around full swing in the form of their little Scooby gang and sock him a good one, right where it mattered most. Peter, in all forms and ways, had _earned_ this and it was… well, it was satisfying.

But. And that but was deadly, the part of Stiles that flinched at the sight of abuse, the part of Stiles that would bury Scott’s father for raising a hand to him, the empathy he held that reared its head and forced Stiles to think thoughts he may not want to. Stiles knew what it was like, to have his mind played with. To be trapped inside it at the whim of something more powerful, and yeah it was a little twisted to compare the Nogitsune to Scott, but the principle held. They’d put him in a cell where he could never escape, which was good punishment, even too easy, in Stiles’ books.

But ( _But)_ this, seeing Peter, cocky, swaggering, snarling, dangerously intelligent Peter, curled up and muttering to himself, it yanked at his stomach unpleasantly. They were messing with his mind, breaking it all over again. Stiles knew Peter had never been a great guy (see: Paige), but the fire had really been what sent him over the edge into homicidal, right? Was driving him nuts the right thing to do? Morally and practically?

Stiles stood there for a long time, just staring at the curled up wolf who had turned Scott into a killing beast, who would have torn Derek’s throat out when he was Alpha, who had killed his own niece for her power. Who had tormented Lydia. And then he left without a word, knocking three times on the door and walking slowly out, hands balled into fists as his sides. He refused to look back, but the door was chrome, and he’d seen the slight blue reflection of glowing eyes for a split second before the door had swung open.

He didn’t tell anyone what he’d seen.

 

2\. Attempt To Establish A Line Of Communication

It took Stiles two weeks to go back, and this time he didn’t tell anybody. He entered the cell more confidently this time, and the guards hadn’t offered any explanation for the cellmate’s absence. Stiles knew they wouldn’t let Stiles meet him, it was too much of a risk, but they also couldn’t move Peter from his designated cell.

The entire place smelled of bleach, which was significantly more prominent than the last time and Stiles resolutely did _not_ think about why that might be. He didn’t want to consider what his silent visit had done to Peter, or what might have happened here over the course of a fortnight.

Peter wasn’t curled up this time, nor was he on the floor. No, he was sitting on the single cot that had been stripped down to its mattress, and Stiles suddenly had a flash of all the way one could kill and hurt with nothing more than a sheet. Or the threading from a blanket. That was an unsettling thought and Stiles blinked it away. Peter himself looked a little better, but that might just be because he was facing Stiles now, feet propped up on the end of the bed, arms lightly resting on his knees, quietly considering his only visitor. (Stiles had checked the logs, he’d wanted to know if anyone else had come by. No one had.)

His hair was clean and pushed back messily, and looked a little damp but not particularly clean, like he’d been hosed down for Stiles’ visit. His fingers were still raw, but his fingernails seemed to be all in their relative place, despite being jagged and cracked down in places. The sight of Peter’s bare toes was oddly amusing and Stiles cleared his throat to stop the nervous giggle from erupting.

Peter didn’t seem eager to speak first and Stiles really had no idea what to say. But they’d made eye contact now, Stiles couldn’t just pussyfoot the fuck out again.

“You look better.” And that at least changed the blank expression Peter had been wearing, to something a little more amused. There was none of the usual cockiness though, none of the swaggering sneer. He just looked like Stiles had told a moderately funny joke at a rather boring party. His eyes weren’t crazy, like Stiles had been expecting, more blank than anything else. But maybe that was only because Stiles was basically on the other side of the room. Even if it was a small room, and all that separated them was a pane of glass, though it was very, very strong glass.

“Less, uh, you know. Whacked.” He twirled one finger around his temple in the universal sign for completely fucking batshit, and even that didn’t evoke anymore of a response. Obviously telling Peter that he looked particularly ‘not as insane as you could have today’ wasn’t doing much for him. New line of conversation.

“So Derek left.” Oh yeah, awesome option, _everyone who is related to you has left_. “Like, after he went full White Fang on us, he kind of took off after we got you all settled. Evolved or something like that, off to go find himself with his badass bounty hunter girlfriend. You remember her, right?” He cleared his throat, and wondered if he was imagining that Peter was leaning forward a bit, interested.

“And Kira and Scott are doing great by the way, stronger than ever. Scott’s gotten really good at control now, like, super duper good at the whole True Alpha thing even since Kate made him all psycho skeletal warrior berserker guy.” He said that with a bit of a smug smile, letting Peter know he hadn’t won, that Scott was stronger than ever. That Peter had accomplished nothing. “Chris and Parrish are doing good too. Uh, we think Parrish is a Pheonix and it’s actually super cool. We can’t light him on fire if he gets out of hand. Gotta find a new strategy.” He was babbling, that’s what he did, and he couldn’t quite pinpoint the moment that ‘rubbing Peter’s failure in his face’ became a blow by blow of current events.

He’d gotten a reaction though, finally, as Peter’s lips turned up a bit. Of course he’d find a joke about his first demise at their hands to be the thing that was worthy of a facial expression. “Even Meredith is doing pretty good. Stable now, Lydia and her have been helping each other a lot.” He trailed off, losing the threads of anything to say.

He figured giving Peter too many details wouldn’t be good, he knew crazy killer types tended to fixate and he didn’t want to give Peter anything to latch on to. He didn’t want to talk about his father, or Melissa or anything, and the moment the idea of talking about Malia popped into his head, he knew it was a horrible idea. Even though Peter had proven he’d had no qualms about tossing her daughter into walls to get her out of his way, Stiles knew he cared about her in a twisted sort of way. So giving him the satisfaction of knowing about her was _not_ an option.

Silence hung between them, a cord around Stiles’ throat, pulling tighter and tighter by the second, making his chest go tight. Peter was the one to break it this time and Stiles nearly jumped out of his skin when he did.

“And you?” His voice was hoarse but not from disuse. It didn’t have that hoarseness that spoke of having been silent for a long time. No, it was rougher than that, like it had been run over with sandpaper, like Peter spent too much time screaming.

“What?” It was the only reply he could think of after a few long moments of his stunned silence, and Peter seemed in no rush to move on. The smile on the wolf’s face grew, and those blue eyes glowed, just faintly.

“What are the recent developments with you, Stiles?”

The teen blanched at that. Once again, he’d anticipated taunts, jabs, maybe some sort of snappy inquiry. But instead, this. This seemingly honest, gentle request for new information. On him. On his recently acquired news boy. Stiles was left speechless, what was he supposed to say?

_Everyone has something to hold on to, everyone’s found something new to reach towards, I’m left behind as a convenience, disguised as a necessity._

That was a bit too melodramatic. But what else was there to say?

_Sometimes I have nightmares that I’m still the Nogitsune, that I gut Scott, that I rip Derek’s heart out of his chest, that I’m still twisting that sword and it feels so good. They don’t scare me. But I don’t know what to call them besides nightmares._

He swallows hard and takes a deep breath, but whatever platitudes he’d meant to say got caught in his throat,

_Derek is gone and Scott doesn’t need me anymore, I’m dating a werecoyote that only likes me because she’s more amoral than I am and my father is inevitably careening towards death at the hand of his own eating habits. I’m terrified to even wake up most mornings._

But Stiles just shrugged, finally getting his feet under him (metaphorically), “You know me, alls good. Uh, want me to deliver a message out?” Peter’s gaze seemed to sharpen then, hearing the lie, all of them.

“You won’t deliver it anyways.” Stiles didn’t know how to respond to that, so he didn’t. It was nice, having the luxury of walking away from Peter anytime he wanted. He could just walk away forever and never come back. It was entirely his choice.

He definitely didn’t stare at that dull blue reflection until the door opened to let him out.

 

3\.  Allow Them To Get Comfortable In Your Presence

The visits continue. It’s not on a schedule or anything, Stiles generally makes his decisions on a whim. But there is a sort of pattern, whenever the dark circles under his eyes become dark enough to worry even Lydia, when his father comes home bruised or limping, when Scott doesn’t pick up his phone all weekend, Stiles drops by. Peter doesn’t get more talkative, often doesn’t greet Stiles, and doesn’t improve past what Stiles noted in his second visit.

Sometimes he’s composed, sitting up, occasionally pacing, generally keeping his eyes on Stiles when he’s like that. These are the times where Stiles gets questions, nothing intrusive, nothing detailed. Nothing about Malia or Derek. Stupid, little things like ‘Has the pastry shop begun to restock fruit tarts?’ and Stiles usually knows the answer, it’s a small town after all. But when he doesn’t, he doesn’t see any harm in going to find the answer and reporting it back next visit.

It doesn’t take long for him to realize the reasoning behind Peter’s questioning. They’re so normal, so tiny and simple, and that’s rather the point, Stiles thinks. These are questions that might pop into your head while walking down the road, or the sort of thing you’d learn while making idle chitchat with the cashier. It’s a way for him to cling to normalcy, to know what’s going on in the outside world, to have something with his roommate driving him to insanity, that’s just so plebeian and normal.

Stiles doesn’t mind, and those visits are punctuated by long drawn out silences that slowly, ever so slowly, go from choking to comfortable, to something he can just appreciate. Sometimes Peter will ask after Stiles again and after his first little bail and run, he’s got answers planned out before he comes now. A recount of a lacrosse game, updates on his applying for universities, the occasional funny anecdote about something Coach did. Not the pack, never the pack, Stiles is cautious never to push over in that line. He’d said more than enough the first time.

Sometimes though, Peter isn’t composed. Sometimes he’s curled up just like Stiles had found him the first time. Sometimes the wounds he clawed into himself go down his throat, bloody his prison issued clothing. Sometimes his eyes flash blue, flickering on and off like a faulty bulb and he chokes off little broken growls whenever Stiles gets too close.

Well, he used to at first. After the eighth or ninth visit, the fifth time seeing Peter unbalanced and rabid, Stiles gets close, sits on the ground next to the glass and Peter doesn’t protest. Doesn’t do that little half lunge Stiles had provoked accidentally once or twice, doesn’t snarl or dig his broken claws into his own flesh harder as if the pain will make Stiles vanish. No, he just accepts Stiles so close to the glass, still a few feet away as Peter’s burrowed himself into the farthest corner. Stiles settles down, converse clad feet out in front of him, Batman and superman ones, a birthday gift from Scott.

It’s on that same visit that Stiles learns that talking helps. When Peter is locked up and on the edge, when he seems too distant from himself, Stiles’ rambling tangents seem to calm him, bring him back to clarity.

It didn’t matter what he talked about, whether it be the statistical improbability of a zombie apocalypse, to his Lord of the Ring headcannons, to how he’d recently learned the exact difference between cuts of meat during one of his late night research sessions. He could spend an hour just talking on and on about this or that and by the time his throat was sore and he realized how long it had been, Peter’s head would have lifted, his eyes a little clearer. Stiles never thought his babbling would be good for anything other than buying time and getting himself out of sticky situations, but Peter seemed to enjoy it. Or find it irritating enough to focus on, at least.

He didn’t even realize that his visits were becoming more and more frequent, at least once a week, usually twice, until his father commented on it. Stiles made up some excuse about pack business and scouting and things, but even after he’d realized that he’d gone to see Peter for almost four months, consistently, he wasn’t that bothered by it. Eichen House, somehow, had become somewhere to go when he needed to think or just breathe. Nothing was going to attack him; it was a hell of a lot more secure from deadly monsters than his bedroom or even the Hale vault. He could just talk, not worry about anyone judging him, questioning him, demanding anything from him. For the most part Peter was a constant presence and Stiles, well, Stiles felt like he could help.

Feeling helpful and useful wasn’t something he got often. It also wasn’t often he could talk for twenty minutes about how he had come up with a new torture device for the magically flying inclined, they’d encountered a couple of those, and have a willing party who would quietly and attentively listen to him. And it’s not like Peter could turn his nose up, he was a killer, a bloodthirsty maniac, Stiles had nothing on him. No one would believe Peter if he told anyone that Stiles was basically using him as a human sounding board anyways.

It was comforting. Weirdly. And hey, it’s not like he was sneaking Peter files or anything. And the guy looked pathetic, possibly slowly losing his mind, Stiles knew what that felt like. What was the harm in being there every now and then, just to ramble and talk and answer stupid questions about whether the flowers by the freeway had bloomed yet.

And maybe it was just Stiles’ imagination but Peter seemed to look forward to the visits. He would focus in when Stiles entered, and given Stiles did tend to have more time to come visit on weekends, Peter seem to comb his hair back with his fingers when he wasn’t having one of his… episodes. Seemed to make a bit of an effort to be standing when Stiles arrived. To be needed, even by someone as horrible and as broken as Peter, was a nice feeling. To have someone looking forward to him was comforting and he rationalized that being desired, in one way or another, was something everyone craved, in one way or another.

There was nothing wrong with him.

 


	2. Steps 4-5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Step 4. Establish Yourself As A Place Of Safety  
> Step 5. If They Do Something Wrong, Don’t Get Angry. Forgive Them, They Will Punish Themselves.
> 
> In which Stiles starts to forget why he's glad there's glass between them, and Peter falls way off the wagon.

4\. Establish Yourself As A Place Of Safety

 

On Stiles’ thirty fourth visit, he saw a third side to Peter’s mental state while in captivity. He figured one might call it ‘despair’. It was a Thursday evening and Stiles came in, practically bouncing. He’d had a thought in his head all day about the relevance of mayonnaise to the popularization of meatsauce on hotdogs and froze in his tracks when he saw Peter.

The wolf wasn’t snarling or pacing or clawing or even rocking back and forth. His eyes were human, no claws, and Stiles couldn’t see any visible wounds, so he hadn’t been clawing at himself over the past twenty four hours. None of the regular signs. Peter’s clothes were fine and he was just lying on the small cot, and Stiles had never, not once, seen him lie down. It instantly worried him.

“Yo, wolf man, what’s up? Don’t tell me you’re napping. I thought you were like, super human, thought you never slept. It would be too weak and mortal of you.” No reaction, and as Stiles stepped closer he saw that Peter’s eyes were open, staring blankly at the ceiling. Stiles rapped his knuckled on the glass, no reaction. “Hey, anybody in there?” He had the realization that knocking on the glass probably wouldn’t be very nice to the wolf’s ears but hey, damage done and all that. He knocked again and this time, a flicker, Peter’s eyes glowing for a moment before he looked over to Stiles. There we go, all right.

“Not going all comatose on me now, are you? I mean like, figured you were a fight to the bitter end sort of guy, not a give up and take a two year nap for the second time.” He paused, words getting lost from brain to tongue and he slowed down, embarrassed as he kept talking, “Sort of… guy. Anyway.”

He gave his head a little shake and then laughed, “Talking isn’t any fun if you’re not listening. Might as well not even come all the way out here, could just talk to myself in my own bedroom.” At that Peter seemed to give a sigh and then slowly pushed himself up into a sitting position. He swung his legs out of bed and approached the glass, only to plop himself right down in front of Stiles and rest his head against the barrier. It was silent for a long moment before Stiles sat down too, resting his head next to Peter, so if the glass wasn’t in the way, the sides of their faces would be pressed together. Which would be awkward.

Another reason to be glad the glass was there, Stiles thought. He needed more of those reasons, since the ones he had seemed to be vanishing by the week. He and Malia were spending less and less time together, a mixture of Stiles’ lack of availability on weekends and Malia needing less and less of a support system as she acclimatized to her new life.

“I’m listening.” Stiles jolted a little, looking over at Peter, who had his eyes closed, letting Stiles study his features. He looked tired, softened like this, like all the energy had been drained out of him. Stiles felt the sudden compulsion to say something, and him and compulsions new each other well.

“You remember that you’ve survived death, right? Like twice. You’re gonna survive this.” Peter didn’t react, and Stiles flushed the moment the words were out. He cleared his throat, determinedly not thinking over where the fuck that had come from.

No, he just opened his mouth and let all the thoughts of the day stream out in one big flow. He watched out of the corner of his eye as Peter’s Hand came up and rested on the glass and Stiles’ hand followed it without hesitation, even as he didn’t so much as pause in his rant about how _of course_ once the British started tossing Mayonnaise and Barbeque sauce together, they were going to start mixing shit together left and right, like spiders and teenagers, like toxic substances and turtles.

Peter seemed to relax after a while, that unnatural stillness fading away, letting out another, deeper sigh and Stiles felt accomplished. It was forty minutes before Stiles was done that tangent and Peter seemed to be much more content afterwards, at least he was making facial expressions again, even the minute twitch of lips Stiles had gotten used to as a replacement for a smile was better than that blankness.

Stiles stood, wiping his hands down on his shirt and offering a bright smile, “Don’t you go giving up on me now. I’d look crazy talking to a vegetable.” Another slight twitch of lips from Peter and then Stiles knocked on the large door and headed out.

**~~**

The guards knew him by name, he figured he should find that weird, that he came to a supernatural ward of a crazy house so often that the specialized guards there greet him casually and didn’t even bother asking him anything except for his signature on the log in sheet.

It was two days after Peter and Stiles had Tarzan and Jane hand touched through the glass, and Stiles didn’t want to wait until the next week, making this the first week he’d visit Peter three times.

Peter was… exercising when Stiles walked in. Doing sit ups, but he stopped the moment the door creaked open enough for Stiles to step in. Stiles had only caught the briefest of glances of him pulling himself up by his abs before Peter looked over and hooked his arms over his knees, greeting Stiles with a slight nod. Stiles beamed at him and settled down by the glass almost immediately but Peter was apparently in a pacing mood, so Stiles watched him as he walked the short length of his cell over and over.

“How you doing?” Stiles asked after a moment, wanting to know if the odd, scary, empty funk Peter had been in Friday was still around.  Peter paused in his pacing and looked over, lifting his shoulders in an indecisive shrug,

“My current cellmate can be… taxing at times. But as long as I have a reason to get to my feet…” He resumed his pacing, “There’s no reason to worry.”

Stiles considered that. He was the one who’d coaxed Peter out of bed.  Who’d gotten him to relax. He wanted to ask what that reason was, maybe make a taunt that he was never getting out of here so he better make it a good one, but Peter was more talkative than he’d been since he’d been locked up in here and he didn’t want to risk that.

“All righty then,” A moment of silence and then, “So what kind of exercise can you even do in that cell?” Peter’s smile was oddly playful and Stiles felt his heart pick up a notch. Something had changed.

Peter was just adjusting, getting used to his new situation, balancing out. That was all. Stiles was just a small connection to the outside, to help keep him grounded. Peter was stabilizing. That was a good thing.

A sane Peter was better than an insane one. Stiles was helping the pack, really. Being a good citizen. He calmed his heart back down, or at least tried to.

 

5\. If They Do Something Wrong, Don’t Get Angry. Forgive Them, They Will Punish Themselves.

 

Three weeks later, they wouldn’t let Stiles in, wouldn’t even let him get to the doors of the supernatural ward. They refused to give him information, and only after Stiles standing in the lobby for half an hour did they tell him that he could come back tomorrow but tonight wasn’t an option.

Stiles was a wreck for the rest of the night, nervous and jumpy and Scott was free, thank god, and was available for bro time. But still, Stiles couldn’t get it out of his head. Peter was dead. Peter had been subject to some horrible experiment and died under the scalpel. There had been a breakout and Peter had been hurt. Peter had finally completely lost it and they had to put him down. The possibilities were driving him mad.

And what only upset him more was that he was upset. Upset over Peter, the crazed killer who had turned Scott and torn Laura in half and teamed up with mega bitch Kate Argent to fucking kill them all. He should not be upset about Peter potentially being hurt, or dead. But he was, fuck it, he was. For whatever twisted bond Stiles had developed with him was not going away and it was messing him up big time.

The next day he went right to Eichen House just after dinner, parking in the guest area (there weren’t many spots filled) and hurried inside, down the side hall marked ‘Maintenance’ and through a small other door marked ‘Out of Order for Construction’ until he was in the supernatural wing.

He didn’t bother greeting the guards, just impatiently signed his name on the sheet and planned to bounce on his heels for a couple minutes as they cleared Peter’s cellmate out, like always. But the guards just opened the door for him immediately and the panic Stiles had been actively repressing came back up so fast he had to pound a fist to his chest to keep himself from choking.

Stiles hurried down and found Deaton standing there, pinching his nose. Deaton. Fucking of course.

“Don’t have time for a lecture now Doctor Facilier.” He said, trying to slip past him but Deaton just put an arm out, blocking his path, making Stiles huff a breath of deep annoyance as he turned to glare at him.

“Stiles. Everyone handles grief in different ways,” Grief, what grief. He wasn’t grieving. Well, Allison, he was grieving Allison but that had nothing to do with this. Even Scott was off boning Kira, if he was over it, so could Stiles be. “But this, your visits, your… relationship with Peter is unhealthy. He’s simply trying to manipulate you.” Stiles’ glare got more intense but he was still more than worried, and he knew it lost impact due to that.

“Yeah, yeah, I got it. I’m an innocent little flower who the big bad wolf is going to eat right up. I’m not actually a complete fucking idiot, you know. Hey, by the way, wasn’t the guy you locked Peter in there with the same guy who put you all… beautiful comatose mind just by looking at you?” He crossed his arms over his chest, trying to puff himself up.

Peter wasn’t dead, Deaton wouldn’t be here if this was the case. “The way I see it, I’m the only reason he hasn’t done something like this before.” What ‘this’ was, Stiles had no idea but Deaton didn’t need to know that.

The retired emissary just sighed and let Stiles through, and he practically burst through the doors, expecting the worst, but it wasn’t there. Peter was sat on the floor, seeming to be meditating and he looked _good_.

Better than good. Better than Stiles had ever seen him since… a long time. Since he was at his peak of sanity and health back in Derek’s flat, when he was getting all of his strength back and hiding it from everyone. (Stiles noticed, of course he noticed, but he figured he’d let Peter keep his secrets until he figured out his end game. And look how well that had turned out.) His hair was cut and combed, dry and looked like it had been taken care of by an actual brush.

His nails were totally fine, almost polished, like he’d been given access to a buffing kit. Like someone had washed blood out from under his nails. There were no scratches, no wounds on him. He positively shone with health.

And the mattress on the cot was new, no imprint from many nights of being lay on, no slightly deformed edges. Brand new. And there, just near the end of the bed, a slight discoloration on the floor. Like a copious amount of blood had been spilled and attempted to be washed away quickly. Stiles’ eyes automatically flashed to a similar discoloration near the place where the glass met cement on one wall. One dead. Maybe two. How much of that blood was Peter’s?

When Stiles finally looked back at Peter, he jolted when those glowing eyes fixed on him.

Those glowing red eyes.

Stiles instantly stumbled back a few steps, but Peter only held his hands up peaceably. 

“I’m locked in tight, Stiles, I’m sure Deaton wouldn’t have allowed you in if I wasn’t.” Stiles didn’t move for a very long moment but eventually he relaxed. So this is what Deaton hadn’t wanted him to see.  Peter was an Alpha again. Which meant he would have had to have killed an Alpha wolf. Was that what the bloodstains were? Why the fuck had they let an Alpha wolf inside Peter’s cell?

“H-How, wha-why, how-” Stiles could barely get two words out before he choked on a rapid inhale. Peter stood and stepped up quickly to the glass, putting his palms against it, standing close and out of habit, Stiles stumbled forward and pressed his hand against where Peters’ were.

The panic attack that had been building seemed to be caught before it could gain traction, and Stiles just rested his head against the glass, breathing slowly, Peter’s eyes back to a human tint and filled with concern. Or was Stiles just deluding himself, was he so desperate for an expression of affection, for someone to _need_ him, that he had convinced himself that Peter actually gave a shit? Was he that broken?

But when he cleared his head and kept holding Peter’s gaze, Peter’s concern was naked on his face, he looked desperate to get through the glass, not to escape, not to hurt, but to hold Stiles close.

Stiles shut his eyes and pulled away from the glass. “How?” He managed, voice a little hoarse, and kept his eyes closed, trying to catch those shattered edges and pull them back to form something that resembled sanity. That resembled someone who could go to sleep at night without pills, who could spend a day without their hands trembling, who didn’t come visit the secret wing of an institute for the mentally ill so he could talk to a killer and not feel jagged.

Peter let the silence grow thick enough for Stiles to cling on to before he broke it. Left Stiles hanging on nothing but his voice.

“The power of an Alpha, it’s all in the mind. Magic is half will, half power. My roommate, well, I’m sure you know the premise of his abilities. It turns out that if put under enough strain, a psychic can actually unlock the Alphic potential in a wolf’s mind. My theory is that he does something of a system reset, returning me to a previous state.” His voice was steady, smooth, honest. But then Peter could sound like anything he liked.

Still, Stiles looked up and met his eyes again, “So who left those stains?” It was a fair question. Stiles knew that, he deserved to know.

“That,” One of Peter’s hands swept down to indicate the stain by the bed, “Was where my roommate underwent the necessary strain to give me what I wanted. And that,” His fingers, nice, polished, sane looking fingers, twitched towards the stain at the door. “Was a temporary lack of control brought on by my returned state.”

It took Stiles a few breaths to process that information. He could imagine it easily, Peter carving his claws into the psychic, snarling at him, bloody and fractured, demanding his power back from him. And then once he had it, flooded with energy, howling his victory, a guard, an attendant, coming in to check on him, to sedate him, maybe. And being reduced to a hastily cleaned stain.

Stiles figured it should shock him. Sicken him. Have him double over and puke out his guts. Peter had just killed two people. Arguably one deserved it, and Peter might have even been justified in killing his cellmate, but the other person. They were innocent, for all intents and purposes. Peter had killed them. He would have killed Stiles if it would have been him stepping through those doors.

But instead of running, of leaving, of accusing Peter of being an irredeemable, manipulative murderer, he just asked, “Temporary?” And it was almost endearing how quick Peter was to confirm that.

“Very temporary. I made no escape attempt. That wasn’t my goal. I had no intention to lose control either.” He finally withdrew his hand from the glass and clasped both in front of him, looking somewhat imploring, like he was desperate for Stiles to believe his story.

“And are you all right?” Stiles didn’t mean just physically, Peter was positively sparkling with health, but the Alpha wolf knew what he meant.

“Yes. Without that… interference, my head is much clearer. And as I have what I wanted.” He slowly let his eyes glow red, as if to confirm what Stiles was thinking. But of course that’s what Peter wanted, it’s what he’d always wanted. To be Alpha again. So why was he standing here, explaining his actions to Stiles, looking… sweet. Looking guilty. Stiles was sure he was pale, smelled of nerves and nausea.

“Why didn’t you break out?” It felt right, this reversal of questioning. Finally Peter was the one talking and Stiles was the one getting answers, feeling satisfied with the ones he got. Whether they were true or not didn’t particularly matter, Stiles admitted to himself, and he understood why Peter had accepted all of Stiles’ stories about the outside world without question. It didn’t matter, not really. All that mattered was the way they were said.

But Peter didn’t answer him. The wolf just stared back at him through the glass. Holding his silence. Stiles didn’t press, just like when Stiles answered for all those visits, there were subjects he wouldn’t breach. So Stiles accepted this one.

“All right.” Stiles decided, both confirming it to Peter and himself, “All right.” He walked over and sat down with his back to the glass, leaning on it, “So, the baby’s breath are blooming and my dad keeps  having to tell people not to pull over to go take pictures of them cause they block up the road.”

Perhaps habit was the only thing Stiles had to deal with this, but it didn’t feel like it. He didn’t feel angry, or betrayed. Peter was Peter, and Stiles hadn’t deluded himself into thinking Peter was reformed or anything like that. He was fine, stable, probably more than he had been in a while. He was Alpha again and didn’t seem to be in any hurry to get out of this place.

No logic to blame a dog who attacked when backed into a corner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to contact me at my tumblr, reincarnatedalpha.tumblr.com, where I generally freak out about all things Steter. I'm also open to prompts and things, that might get my brain going, so feel free. Comments and Kudos warm my frozen heart.  
> Next update on the 18th.


	3. Steps 6-7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Step 6. Accept Any Display Of Trust, No Matter The Form It Comes In.  
> Step 7. Defend Them Without Hesitation.
> 
> In which Stiles realizes just how deep he's in and Peter gets tired of waiting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We really see the touch!starved Stiles here. Rating will change next chapter.

6\. Accept Any Display Of Trust, No Matter The Form It Comes In.

The visits continued as normal. There was a pack meeting about Peter’s new status, and Stiles spoke up in his defense.

“He doesn’t seem unstable. I talked to him, very few murder crazy vibes. He’s cool, he doesn’t seem to want to get out. Deaton even supported what he said, he didn’t even try to leave his cell after he killed the guard.”

Scott looked at him with surprise at his compassion and Lydia narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously, but the pack decided that Peter wasn’t a danger, and somehow Stiles got Scott supporting his visits to ‘keep an eye’ on Peter’s activities and mental state.

Stiles avoided Lydia like a plague for the next few days.

And as for Peter, well, he’d begun to have real conversations, actually contributing to turn Stiles’ monologues into dialogues. Whatever piece of random trivia caught Stiles’ mind, Peter listened and returned his own thoughts on the subject. They began to banter, to exchange ideas, and when Stiles came in reeking of worry, of tension, Peter gently inquired as to what’s wrong. He seemed so earnest, so well intentioned, asking with a slight tilt of his head, resting his palm against the glass, Stiles couldn’t reason why he shouldn’t unload.

So Stiles tells him.

“My dad just, he’s the sheriff, you know that. And it’s what he loves, he helps so many people and its great that there’s someone in charge who actually gives a shit about the people of Beacon Hills. Like, what if that cop who’d tried to kill Parrish was Sheriff? That’s terrifying.” Stiles actually shuddered at the idea, “And now that dad knows about all of this,” He paused, realizing he’d gestured at Peter, who raised a brow, “I mean the supernatural stuff. Not… this.” He gestured between the two of them and Peter’s expression only became more amused.

The Alpha Wolf had gotten his sass back, that was for sure. And his sharp tongue was present as ever but never turned against Stiles anymore. It had been a dozen visits since Peter fell off the wagon, and everything seemed to be going just fine. Which was… unsettling, almost. Nothing ever went this smoothly. Especially not with Peter, so Stiles was constantly in wait for the other shoe to drop. What a stupid fucking expression. It was more like waiting for a nuke.

Stiles cleared his throat, “Anyway, so it’s great he is what he is and does what he does but he keeps putting himself in danger, you know. He’s almost fifty, and he walked out to meet this scared, high teenage kid with a gun last night, no vest on, no gun, nothing!” The teen paused, rubbing his hands up and down his own arms and lowering his volume, which had been increasing steadily. “He wasn’t even on duty and he just approached this kid whose finger was on the trigger. He could have been shot, I could have lost him. And then what’ll I do?” He dragged fingers through his hair and glanced over to Peter, who was calmly regarding his hysteria, no lingering trace of amusement.

“You’ll survive.” The words were delivered calmly, precisely, like Peter had tested them in his mind a few times before he let himself say them. Stiles didn’t say anything, caught off guard. He hadn’t been expecting an answer to his rhetorical question. “You’ll grieve and you’ll move on. You’ll find a way to let it strengthen you.” From Peter, that was practically a motivational speech. The honesty was, well, more than a little odd coming from him, the sort of raw meaning behind it.

Stiles nodded, sighing, and fell back against the wall, deciding to change the subject quickly to keep the silence from getting awkward,

“And how are you doing?”

~

Summer arrives and with it, so does an abundance of free time. Eichen House has nice air conditioning, and Stiles visits Peter four days a week on average. The logs show he only comes once, maybe twice a week (he knows the names of the guard’s children by this point) and he gives Scott reports on a similar schedule.

Peter still never greets him first, and Stiles never questions it, and begins to talk about the activities of the pack. Still not about Malia, still not Derek, but Scott and Kira and Lydia, what their exploits are, how Lydia is aiming for Harvard ‘Just to see what it’s like’. Peter’s sass gets stronger every day until Stiles is grinning like a dope as they exchange barbs through his prison cell.

“Why am I not surprised. Constantly the tragic hero, and the hero must always have a princess.” Peter dismissed with a wave of his hand as Stiles told him how Kira and Scott had their first ‘I Love You’ and it may have squicked Stiles out a bit because of Alison.

“First of all, maybe he needs a prince, huh, don’t be a homophobe,” Peter rolled his eyes at that but Stiles continued on, “And Scott just wants true love. True Alpha, True Love, True Happiness, he’s just a truthful kind of guy.”

“Truth can only get you so far. But the noble have the luxury of never having to find that out.”

Stiles snorted, “Given you speak like you’re out of some posh boarding school, I suggest you shush about the nobleness of Scott’s blood.”

“Ah, ah,” Peter returned with a shake of one finger, “It’s not his blood I’m commenting on, merely his psyche. And his need to have a suitable love interest to justify his quest for righteousness. He is always fighting for love. I supposed he would have milked the dead lover thing for a while longer but I suppose since that lover wasn’t technically his on time of death…” He tilted his head to the side in Peter’s version of a shrug,

“And what? Only the good, righteous noble ones fight for love? All of us morally ambiguous folks just have to sit back and be lonely?”

Peter smirked, leaning back against the wall and eyeing Stiles up and down, “No, our sort simply have partners. In crime, most often.” Stiles felt himself flush against his permission and he waved Peter off with a flick of his wrist, not even bothering to protest the use of _our_.

“Such a poet. But back to the original point, Scott, my father and Parrish all like pickles, onions and mustard, is it like a taste connected to more moral people?”

Peter laughed, Stiles will never admit how much he loves it when he does that, easily flipping back to the original point Stiles had come in with.

~

Peter tells Stiles about how to get into the Hale vault, where his spare key is to his apartment downtown, and Stiles brings in books Peter isn’t allowed to have. A lot of old timey poetry, but Stiles refuses to bring in anything magic related. He reads the books on Peter’s shelves in droves and discuses them with the prisoner. He brings photos from the vault for Peter to see through the glass, Peter citing that it was getting harder to remember the details of certain faces.

It didn’t escape Stiles how much trust these actions took, how much faith Peter was putting in Stiles. It made Stiles feel secure, justified almost. That this attachment he’d developed didn’t just go one way. Stiles wasn’t just Peter’s connection to the outside, Peter was welcoming Stiles inside as well.

On the first day of August, Stiles lay in his bed and thought about how Peter had spoken about one of the love poems they’d dissected together. How his hands had moved in description, how his tone had gone soft.

He’s hard before he can think about it, and coming into his hand with Peter’s name bouncing around his head a few minutes later.

He is so, so, so fucked.

He needs to talk to Lydia.

 

7\. Defend Them Without Hesitation.

It’s the end of August, Stiles’ senior year of highschool is fast approaching, deadlines loom like huge figures in the shape of university tuition and application periods. School hasn’t even started and Stiles’ stress level is already through the roof. It’s like the supernatural knew it was summer vacation because they’ve been popping up more and more often throughout the summer.

There’s been many times that information Stiles had gotten from Peter had saved all of their asses. And as for Peter, he’s getting better, a lot better. He’s just as he used to be, maybe even better, with his Alpha powers back, any power hungry fantasies apparently gone, and he’s obviously making use of his newly solitary cell as he, well, he’s always been fit but he’s a lot more defined more. Stiles walked in on him doing handstands and a sort of backwards pull up, one handed. He never showed off, always dropped down to the ground to converse the moment Stiles sets foot in.

Stressful as things may be, but Peter was a constant. A good, solid thing Stiles had to look forward to. He and Malia were officially just friends, and Lydia had given him some good lessons about ‘projection’ and ‘unhealthy fixations’, so things were good, overall.

So of course Peter had to choose that moment to break out. None dead, thank god, but two guards seriously injured and three other inmates had been accidentally let free in the chaos. Stiles was out enjoying some icecream with Issac and Kira when he got the call from Scott, who’d been with Deaton when the emissary was notified by the asylum. Stiles’ blood ran cold instantaneously, immediately looking back over their last few visits.

Had Peter said anything out of the ordinary? Had Stiles told him something that would make him want to break out? Was he more restless, or twitchy? No, of course not. The last big change in behavior Stiles had noticed was months ago. When Peter started to seem sane again.

Had he been planning the escape for that long? If he had, why hadn’t he just done it when he first got his Alpha back? What was he planning? He couldn’t just leave, surely Derek would come after him. Did he have a goal? Why would he change so suddenly? Stiles felt his breath stop as he thought about Peter’s potential targets. Scott. Malia. His dad.

Stiles immediately called the sheriff, but it went to voicemail three times and by the third time his father’s voice told him to leave a message at the beep, Stiles was driving home. His dad always kept his phone on at work unless he was in danger, and if he was at home he might have left it in his coat like he sometimes did.

Stiles wasn’t on the road two minutes before his dad called him back. He pulled over to the side of the road and calmed himself as his father explained he’d been talking to Deaton. Ok. It would all be ok. No one had seen Peter yet, but a car had been hotwired in the parking lot, so Peter wasn’t on foot. Presumably he was resourceful enough to not be wearing prison clothes anymore.

But there were no reports of attacks or crashes or strange sightings. Peter was simply MIA, considered armed and dangerous, but not presently causing destruction. They all agreed to meet up at the vet’s office and Stiles turned around to go pick up Issac and Kira where he’d left them.

Once everyone was there, Stiles was questioned and he told everything honestly. No, Peter hadn’t seemed any different, given any indication or sign or word he was going to break out. He had never spoken about what he’d do when he got out. He hadn’t been asking any questions about anything suspicious. Stiles had no idea why, when or where Peter was going.

It was decided not to go on a hunt, as that would take too long, put Peter on the offensive and most likely would end disastrously. So they’d wait a couple of days, and if nothing happened, they’d search the woods and the perimeter of the town before alerting the surrounding packs that Peter was lurking.

It was Stiles who drove the point home about waiting for Peter to make the first move, to not attack him. He pointed out Peter could have done a lot more damage at the asylum, but he hadn’t. He could have slaughtered two dozen people by now, but he’d just vanished. Maybe he wasn’t looking to kill this time. He was Alpha after all, and if he wanted to start a pack, he might just want to do it properly this time, in another place.

Malia had raised a brow at him, “Didn’t he like, basically almost kill you and Scott last time he tried to start a pack.” Stiles glared at her, though he knew she had a point. But Peter wasn’t like that anymore, he wasn’t mad from the fire. There were no dead nurses this time.

“He was all crazy and comatose at that point. He’s better now, a lot more stable. He doesn’t have the crazy in his eyes. Ask Deaton, doesn’t he seem better?” Stiles turned to the emissary, as if daring him to oppose Stiles’ diagnosis.

Deaton sighed heavily but eventually conceded, “Peter does appear to be more rational than our first encounter with him as an Alpha. Holding off on an active assault might be the best option.”

“But we have to find him,” Scott said firmly, slamming his hand on the table, “We can’t just have him running off. Even if he’s not a threat, we need to confirm that.” Stiles agreed with that full heartedly, and the others did too after a moment.

When Stiles got home, he was on edge and practically twitching, waiting for the call. Someone had died, animal attack, someone went missing, suspicious sighting, anything.

After hugging his dad and eating a quick dinner, Stiles went upstairs shutting his door behind him, barely able to take a breath and register his window was open before a hand closed around his mouth.

“Don’t scream.” Stiles froze up, breath coming fast, but then Peter gently let go and stepped back, seemingly having done that to prevent Stiles from alerting his father involuntarily. Which Stiles was almost grateful for. Peter stood in front of him, looking put together, wearing his own clothes (he’d probably stopped by his apartment, the bastard) expression cool, but with a hint of concern he couldn’t hide.

And Stiles just stepped right forward and wrapped his lanky arms around him. Holy shit it felt good, was his first though, to actually get to touch Peter for the first time, though he’d been wanting to for months. Under all the anxiety about what Peter was going to do, there’s also been anxiety about how Peter was doing. Relief flooded him. Peter was here, he’d come to him, and he seemed fine, stable. Sane.  

He felt the laugh rumbling through Peter’s chest before he heard it, “Happy for my visit then, I see?” Peter asked with amusement and damn, Stiles hadn’t even realized that the glass distorted Peter’s voice slightly.  It was smoother than Stiles was used to, deeper, and Stiles pulled back a little.

“What the fuck are you doing, Peter? I just had to convince Scott not to start a damn wolf hunt. Everyone thinks you’re going to go on a killing spree again!” He was yelling, but only in tone, he didn’t dare raise his voice and let his father know what was going on. “Everyone is sure you’re about to go all Hannibal Lecter on the next teenager you come across.”

Peter cupped Stiles’ jaw a little, and Stiles couldn’t help but melt into it. He hadn’t cuddled with Malia in almost three months, and the first time he’d had extended contact besides the occasional bro hug from Scott, was the odd, stiff hug from his dad. The soft, warm touch was like a drug and Stiles let him cradle his skull in one big hand.

“I got tired of being in that cell. I’m perfectly fine to be out on my own. And it was getting harder and harder to tolerate having to sit there day after day. I would have lost my mind all over again.” He paused to smile, hand sliding to cup the back of Stiles’ head and draw him close, “Besides, I couldn’t let you have your senior interrupted by your visits. If you’d kept them up, you’d have hardly had time for homework. This way, I can come to you.”

Stiles was having a hard time breathing, but then Peter’s other arm went around his waist and Stiles grabbed onto his shirt, “You fucking bastard, you scared the shit out of me.” He pulled back just enough to be able to give a fake glare up at Peter, more flirtatious than actually angry, and Peter grinned unapologetically,

“What? Were you frightened I was going to go off and be the big evil creature you met? Killing nurses? Be the bad guy again.” Peter seemed to be enjoying Stiles’ distress but Stiles didn’t mind, he only snorted and scoffed,

“First of all, you have not at all tricked me into thinking you are not the bad guy here. The only reason you didn’t kill those guards was because you knew I wouldn’t hug you if you had.” Peter only shrugged at that, not denying it, “And no, I was scared you were gonna run off on me. Can’t let you go off charming some other impressionable flower.”

Another laugh and Stiles loved being able to feel it rumble against his cheek. Peter bent a little and scooped him up, bringing him right to the bed and dumped Stiles down on it. It was a true testament to Stiles’ contentment that he allowed himself to be carried like a bride. Stiles just rolled over and when Peter joined him, he buried his face in the wolf’s throat.

He should be calling Scott right now, he should let the others know Peter was here. But then there would be talking and accusations and everyone yelling over one another, and Stiles’ will to do the right thing vanished when Peter started petting his hair.

“I much enjoy your hair longer.” He murmured, “I was very pleased to see you had grown it out when I came back from the dead.” Stiles made a little snuffling noise and they fell into a comfortable silence as Peter just touched Stiles and held him close. It felt like completion, like everything they’d built with glass between them was finally being allowed to come together and it was fucking awesome.

It was only after his father had stomped into his own bedroom, calling a goodnight, that Stiles came out of the wonderful daze he’d been in. Shit. Ok. He really needed to call Scott. He told Peter as much and then sat up, but Peter’s hands followed him. Peter sat up too and his hands went to Stiles’ shoulders, starting a slow massage and Stiles felt his will once again soften and start to drain away.

A minute more of massaging and Stiles felt Peter lean in, shivering as the wolf’s lips brushed the back of his neck. Stiles let his head fall forward and the kiss dragged up to his hairline and then back down to the nape of his neck. A line of butterfly kisses came around to his jaw and Stiles turned his head, eyes open and meeting Peter’s as they breathed each other’s air for a second.

Stiles’ phone going off made Stiles jerk, accidentally headbutting Peter, who clutched his nose automatically. Not looking back, heart racing a million miles an hour, Stiles snatched up his phone, Scott at the other end of the line.

“Stiles! Thank god, look, we found the car Peter stole like a block from your house, we think he may be waiting for you to,”

Peter had dropped his hand from his nose and was now watching Stiles curiously, obviously able to hear everything Scott was saying. Stiles cut his friend off, “No, yeah, Peter’s here,”

He winced as Scott instantly began to panic, and he had to almost yell to get Scott to calm down and listen, “He’s here and it’s all good, Scott. No, really, it’s fine. He’s not insane or anything… Yeah, he said he was getting bored in there, so he left.” The silence on the other end of the line at that made Peter laugh, “That’s him, yeah. But no, we’re good. I’m not being held hostage or anything. Don’t come running. We’ll talk to you tomorrow, ok?”

There was a couple more minutes of assuring Scott he was fine before Stiles put the phone down and he turned back to Peter. “I guess we have tonight to ourselves.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contact has been made! Fucking finally, I know, I know. And I'm evil for leaving it off like that but the next update will be on the 25th, promise. 
> 
> Feel free to contact me at my tumblr, reincarnatedalpha.tumblr.com, where I generally freak out about all things Steter. I'm also open to prompts and things, that might get my brain going, so feel free. Comments and Kudos warm my frozen heart.


	4. Steps 8-9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Step 8. Before they will give everything to you, you must first give everything to them.  
> Step 9. Anger Is Not A Bad Thing, Unless Left Uncontrolled
> 
> In which our two lovebirds finally get it on and Scott puts his two cents in about the recent developments. Recently edited.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the rating change, some minor descriptions of violence in Step 9. And what's that? An actual indication of the number of chapters? Yes! This is the second to last chapter, but that doesn't mean I might not do a porny epilogue if it's high in demand.

8\. Before they will give everything to you, you must first give everything to them. 

 

They end up cuddling until sunrise, Stiles the little spoon as Malia had shown him he liked, Peter’s lips on his neck, making him shiver every now and again before he had to get up to pee, change and slip right back into bed, expecting to be cuddled until morning. 

He wasn’t disappointed. He fell asleep with Peter holding him, and woke up the same way, though on his front, splayed over Peter’s chest, who was softly snoring underneath him. Stiles blinked blearily and can’t help his smile at the sight of Peter sleeping so nicely, so trustingly. Peter was so cute when he sleeps, features slack, the lines of suffering less noticeable. 

And he had. He’d suffered so fucking much. 

When Stiles pulled away, trying to get out of his grip to slide out of bed, Peter rumbled something like a growl and his holds tightened. That punched a breathless laugh out of Stiles. He’s being possessively, aggressively cuddled, by an Alpha werewolf in the same bed he’d grown up in, built forts on and under with Scott, jerked off in for the first time. He laughed again and this time Peter’s eyes fluttered open, grumbling as he rubbed a hand on his eyes. 

“Not a morning person, huh?” Stiles teased and Peter retaliated by rolling them over and laying on top of Stiles, making him squeak and kick out playfully, as if trying to escape. Peter’s eyes flashed, snarling a little, but there was no real aggression to it, 

“Stay still you little brat,” He commanded and Stiles gleefully disobeyed, wiggling and squirming and kicking, “You’re going to regret it.” Peter warned but Stiles was enjoying working Peter up far too much. And yeah, maybe he really liked how strong Peter was, how effortlessly he could just hold him down. 

Stiles just leaned up to bite at his shoulder, digging his teeth in hard and delighted in hearing Peter’s breath catch. Stiles squirmed again but then froze, and Peter took the opportunity to get Stiles’ arms and legs well pinned. Stiles blinked a few times as he felt Peter’s erection press into his inner thigh. 

Peter’s smile was slow and predatory as he heard Stiles’ heart start racing, smelt his responding arousal. The wolf slowly and deliberately rolled his hips again, the thin fabric of Stiles’ boxers allowing the human to feel him through the front of Peter’s jeans. Oh fuck. 

Stiles yanked his hands and Peter loosened his grip enough for Stiles to wiggle himself free. But he only shoved his hands down between them, eagerly going for the button and zipper of Peter’s jeans, “You cannot laugh,” He gasped out, eyes on the space between them as he unzipped Peter and slid his hand inside to wrap around his half hard cock. “If I come in like ten seconds, like, not one giggle. Not all of us have fucked our way through California, oh my god,” He lost his train of thought when Peter shoved down his jeans and boxers in one go, leaving just his cock in Stiles’ hand. Damn. He was big. Not monstrously so, but it was thick, and Stiles swallowed hard. Peter had a good inch or two on Stiles, but he couldn’t bring himself to feel self-conscious when Peter was staring at him like he was the culmination of everything he wanted. 

Peter leaned in to mouth at the curve of Stiles’ neck, kissing his way up to his ear, “Come as quickly as you need, little lamb,” He purred and yep, yep, prey instincts kicking in… three… two… “It will just give me an excuse to make you come over and over until you can’t fathom speaking if it’s not my name.” System error. Shutting down. 

Even as his brain went offline, his hand was still curiously exploring the length of Peter’s cock, which was fully hard, a little springy, and Stiles kind of wanted to get the wolf to that deep red, pulsing and aching in his hand. 

Peter pushed himself up on his hands and looked at Stiles expectantly until he got the hint, scrambling to push down his own boxers and using his feet to help Peter’s jeans down his calves, nearly kneeing Peter in the crotch, but the Alpha caught his leg and eased it away, letting Stiles laugh in embarrassment. Oops. 

But now all they had on was their shirts, but Peter didn’t seem overly concerned with that. He dropped back down to his elbow, kissing Stiles as one hand slipped down to grasp both of their cocks, giving them a long, slow stroke together. Stiles practically mewled at the feeling of someone else’s hand on his cock, of Peter above him, and yup, Peter knew what the fuck he was doing. 

Peter kissed him, deep and filthy, and Stiles just tried to keep up, hands worming their way up the back of Peter’s shirt to scrape nails down his back and hold on tight, which Peter seemed to appreciate. 

But no matter how much of a handjob expert Peter was (And Stiles would bet on him in a competition, if that meant anything) it was dry, and soon got uncomfortable for Stiles’ weak human flesh. He made a protesting noise against Peter’s lips and then squirmed a bit until he could get on his side and reach his bedside table, opening the drawer and pulling out the lotion he kept in there. He didn’t think about how much Peter’s little possessive growl made him shiver and clench. 

Peter laughed, “Such a teenager.” But his smile was indulgent as he took the lotion and put some into his palm, Stiles giggling at the utter unsexiness of the squelch noise. Peter rolled his eyes, quieting Stiles’ giggling quickly as he took them both in his slick hand. 

Stiles went right back to clutching as Peter stroked them, twisting his wrist right and when he leaned in, eyes going red as he took a deep inhale of Stiles’ scent, the teen was gone. Stiles came with a yelp, no more than a second or warning, splattering up his own front and even dotting Peter’s shirt. 

But Peter was a bastard, obviously, and only loosening his grip slightly, not stopping in his stroking. Stiles panted for a moment before Peter kissed him, breathing in all of Stiles’ little mewls as his oversensitive cock twitched and protested. His entire body shuddered and clenched down, and he attempted to squirm up a bit, to try and get Peter to slow down or stop, but the Alpha was having none of it. 

Peter pressed a forearm down over Stiles’ chest and yup, ok, yeah maybe the whole ‘he can break me with his pinky’ thing does stuff for Stiles. It wasn’t long before he got hard again, even if every stroke is painful to the point that he’s making these squeaky noises whenever Peter rubs his thumb over the head of his cock. 

Which he then started doing more, the ass. Stiles let him know this, accompanying the insult with a hard kick to the side, but Peter seemed to enjoy Stiles’ ire and leaned in to start biting at his neck. Biting, as in leaving bruises and oh yeah, Stiles was going to have hickeys. But he was too far gone to give a shit about stupid stuff like Peter being shot by his father when Peter was working him up to a second orgasm. 

It was harder to reach this soon after the other one though, and Stiles ground his head down into the pillows, legs hitching up around Peter’s waist. Peter finally decided Stiles’ neck was bruised up enough though and he began to murmur into his ear instead, “Such a gorgeous thing, I can’t tell you how often I’ve imaged you under me, how many ways I’ve thought about fucking you senseless. Such a perfect bitch for me.”

That should not get Stiles off. The thought of Peter fantasizing about fucking him while in Eichen House should set off alarm bells, being called a bitch should not make his body lock up as he comes, hard, with barely more than one measly spurt. Stiles falls limp, struggling to catch his breath as Peter sits up on his knees and adjust forward a bit. 

Blowjobs, oh yeah, Stiles is on board with that. He opens his lips obediently, wanting to taste Peter’s cock. But the wolf never brings it close enough to taste, only begins to pump himself a couple inches from Stiles’ face. Confused at first, Stiles’ hands went to Peter’s bare thighs, andonly when Peter is a moment from coming that Stiles figures out what he’s planning to do. 

“Oh you son of a bitch,” Stiles tried to pull away put Peter has him pinned in good and the next thing he knew, he’s got a face full of spunk. Peter’s groaning, almost growling and stroking as he lets ropes of his come splatter over Stiles’ cheeks, his lips, even one across the bridge of his nose. Damn, that’s a lot. Once Peter’s cock is slowly deflating, and he’s grinned down at Stiles, the younger playfully tries to push him away, “Possessive, much?” He sniped and Peter only ran two fingers through the mess and pressed them into Stiles’ mouth. 

“Only marking what’s mine, little lamb.” Stiles resisted for all of two seconds before he sucks Peter’s fingers, wrinkling his nose at the salty, musky taste. Ugh. 

Once again, that should really freak him out, but it doesn’t, so he just waits until Peter deigns to let him up and then grabs a tissue to wipe his face clean and then try to wipe the come off of his shirts. 

“Your father is gone.” Peter slips up behind him, thick arms going around his waist, “We could shower.” 

Yup, Peter was going to kill him. With sex, apparently. Kind of the best way to go. 

 

 

 

9\. Anger Is Not A Bad Thing, Unless Left Uncontrolled 

 

They manage to eventually get clean and call Scott again. Apparently Lydia had been the one telling Scott and everyone else to keep their calm until Stiles could explain himself. Unfortunately, that went right out the window when Scott got within ten feet of Stiles and could smell Peter’s, uh, markings all over him. 

Scott snarled and Stiles had to very quickly step forward, hands out and keeping his eyes on Scott even though the terrain under his feet was unsteady.

They’d decided to meet in the forest, since meeting in a public place was too risky and they didn’t want anyone feeling trapped in someone else’s home. So the Preserve it was, Peter walking just beside Stiles as they headed in the direction of the old Hale house. It was just Scott, Issac and Kira who were coming, Lydia apparently had an appointment and Malia hadn’t wanted to come. 

So standing in the middle of the woods, Stiles hurried over to his best friend, “Scott, chill, it’s ok. He didn’t hurt me or anything. He’s cool, Peter’s cool.” Scott paused, having been ready and geared up to defend his friend’s virtue. 

“You should listen to your friend, Scott, I didn’t do anything Stiles didn’t beg for.” His grin was on the edge of nasty, and Stiles tossed him a glare back over his shoulder. 

“You shut up, you’re not helping.” He looked back to Scott, “He didn’t force me, Scott, or manipulate me or get inside my head or whatever.” 

“Stiles!” The amount of righteous indignation in Scott’s voice is diluted a bit with the amount of confused hurt in it and it makes Stiles’ stomach clench. “He’s a killer! He should be locked up, do you not remember what he did?” 

“He’s better now, Scott. He was all fucked up, but he’s sane now. Kind of. Look, all that matters is that he’s not a danger to anyone who doesn’t like, attack him.” Or me, Stiles tacks on in his head, pleased that Peter has seemingly listened to him about the shutting up, if only for a moment. Stiles figured he didn’t have a lot of time before that timer ran out. 

And of course that’s when Issac piped in, “And how do you know that he isn’t just acting ok like he was before? He’s already used you to bust out of Eichen House. I guess becoming his little bitch is the next logical step.” 

Stiles doesn’t like to be accused of things, especially things he didn’t actually do, and he immediately turned his eyes to Issac, “Ok, first of all, I had nothing to do with Peter’s escape, I had no knowledge of it, secondly, fuck you Issac, just cause you’ve got daddy issues the size of Kentucky doesn’t mean we all do, and thirdly, you don’t know shit about what’s going on. He was dying in there before I started visiting him.” 

“Wasn’t that sort of the point?” Issac shot back, “Now he’ll just kill you one d-” Issac never got to finish that sentence as Peter was across the small space in a heartbeat with Issac slammed up against a thick tree trunk, so hard he’d left a noticeable smart ass sized dent in it.

“I suggest,” Peter said in that too calm, too steady ‘I’m about to lose my temper’ voice, “That you keep your thoughts to yourself, or I might feel inclined to bury my claws in your neck and take them for myself.” Issac lashed out but Peter just punched him in the stomach, using the backstroke to swat Scott out of the air as he lunged at Peter. 

True Alpha Scott might be, but Stiles would bet Peter still had the edge of strength, a lot more experience fighting, and a readiness to kill that always gave him more of a chance in fights. Peter dropped Issac, red eyes glowing as Kira ran over to Stiles, who was still processing, but Stiles didn’t miss the blade in her hand. 

Scott and Peter who both flashing their eyes at one another, fur sprouting, muscles cracking as the two Alphas got ready to tear their each other’s throat out. Scott lunged first, going off pure protective instincts and Peter let himself go down, but used the momentum to throw Scott over himself and into the ground. A perfect opening to go for Scott’s throat. 

But he didn’t, Peter just stood and resumed his offensive pose as Scott scrambled to his feet. Peter wasn’t gone yet, he was getting there, letting his rage overcome him, but he wasn’t there yet. Stiles could still stop. So, possibly doing the stupidest thing of his life, he ran out into the middle of them, holding one hand out to Scott as he faced Peter, 

“Hey, hey, you in control?” Peter snarled through elongated jaws, as if to say, _stupid question,_ “It’s not a stupid question, are you just working this out or am I losing you?” Peter’s eyes wavered for a second before they focused in on Stiles and then he relaxed, jaw slowly melding down into his human one, though his claws stayed out, his eyes stayed red. 

“Don’t underestimate me, Stiles. I’m hardly a slave to my emotions.” They both knew that was a lie and a horribly obvious one at that. Stiles just stared at him for a while longer before Peter hissed through his teeth, “I’m perfectly in control. Now if you’d move your fragile self out of my way so I could continue beating prince charming.” His smile was all fang, and Scott snarled from behind Stiles, but with a glance Stiles confirmed that he was just panting, having pulled back to just a beta shift too. Good. 

Stiles took a slow step back, “All right, clean fight, no deep wounds, no biting, no hair pulling, no wet willies. Winner gets an overinflated sense of superiority and then we’re all gonna sit down and talk about this like adults.” 

He waited for them both to nod or otherwise conceded and then stepped back to a concerned but amused looking Kira, “They just need to work it out?” 

Stiles nodded, “That’s about the just of it.” And then sat back with Kira to play spectator as the two Alphas went at each other, all snarls and pointless posturing, Stiles only having to yell out once as Peter snapped at Scott’s throat, making his ( _his_ ) Alpha pull back and breathe. 

It was a good while later before they both stopped, both a little worse for wear, Scott seeming to have decided that Peter was at least in control enough not to try to kill him during a fight. As for Peter, well, he was just grinning, cocky and sure, brushing one of his hands through his hair and sauntering back to Stiles. 

“That was surprisingly therapeutic.” He admitted and Stiles beamed, leaning into him automatically when Peter put a hand on the back of his neck. Issac had been watching grumpily from the sidelines and looked like he was about to snap something about Stiles responding to Peter’s touch so eagerly, but Peter just flashed his eyes at him, baring his teeth in a bit of a snarl and Issac huffed, backing off. 

“See, maybe if you’d just let me talk a bit more, you’d realize that I’m right most of the time.” He sassed and Peter shifted his arm to loop around Stiles’ waist instead, and Stiles nearly whined at how good it felt. That easy affection, the way Peter actively sought it out. It wasn’t a fatherly duty he was performing, or the lightest tap of a bro hug or friendly pat. Peter touched him so easily, like Stiles was wanted, and if Stiles could purr, he would. 

“If I let you talk anymore, I think that I wouldn’t get to breathe a word for the rest of my days.” He turned his head to lightly press his nose to Stiles’ hair, and Stiles blatantly snuggled into him. 

“Shut up. Like it wasn’t my voice that kept you from Looney-Tooning is up in that place.” Scott was next to Kira, and they were speaking quietly, Scott shooting these confused, hurt looks at Stiles and Peter snuggling. 

“Perhaps.” Was all Peter said in response to that before looking up to Scott, “I think the real issue here is that you fear for Stiles’ precious virtue. And while I won’t bother giving you details on how that’s been utterly despoiled,” Stiles groaned and lightly punched Peter, who didn’t even glance at him, though his fingers ran slowly up and down his side once, “I assure you my self control is at an all time high. And even if it does push the edges… in that case it’s best for me to be close to my anchor, don’t you think?” 

Scott and Stiles’ jaw dropped simultaneously and even Issac came pretty close, though Kira just looked confused for a moment. She wasn’t so well inclined to the concept of anchors. Peter, for his part, just looked amused. 

“What? You thought my attachment was just lust? Don’t worry your noble head, Scotty, I’m much more dependant on Stiles than he is on me.” 

And yup, yeah, Stiles grabbed Peter’s face and pulled him down for a kiss, making Issac pretend to puke into the bushes. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to contact me at my tumblr, reincarnatedalpha.tumblr.com, where I generally freak out about all things Steter. I'm also open to prompts and things, that might get my brain going, so feel free. Comments and Kudos warm my frozen heart.


	5. Step 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 10\. Never forget what they are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, over a month late. *Laughs nervously*, well, you know what they say. Distance makes the fanpeople unbelievably frustrated. But! Soon will come a oneshot that is stock full of porny porn. And there's a sterek fic in the works too. 
> 
> And a Stoker AU I've been promising for like three months now. But they're coming, I swear. Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

10\. Never forget what they are. 

 

Peter’s good. He’s better than good. It turns out that before the fire he enjoyed wood carving, and he gets back to that. Sometimes Stiles drops by his workshed (which he bought a month after his and Scott’s fight) to find him sanding down a 6 foot tall cobra, eyes black, tongue hissing. Other times he’ll come to the apartment to find Peter carving out the tiny details of a bird, a lizard, or a fox. He’s made over two dozen foxes, all lined up on his mantelpiece. Stiles doesn’t quite get the joke, but he doesn’t interfere. 

The pack isn’t exactly welcoming, Derek was notified and the resulting Skype conversation was actually sort of funny. Peter nuzzling into Stiles’ neck, flashing red eyes at Derek through the screen, generally taunting him with the knowledge that Derek was impotent to do anything but snarl and then eventually conceded. Kira, surprisingly, takes best to Peter. His charm and much more… sane disposition helps her as she has little experience with him besides the uh, Kate incident. 

Peter carves while Stiles does work, pets his hair when he has a headache shamelessly picks him up in his Aston Fucking Martin from school, looking like DILF defined as he leans against the side, like the slick guy in an 80’s movie. 

But it’s good, it’s nice. They work well, and after the screaming match with Stiles’ father, Stiles spends most weekends curled up in Peter’s bed. Peter’s bad days mostly consist of bad headaches and long, silent hours of Stiles holding him to his chest as the teen rambles. 

When Stiles mentions maybe going somewhere far, somewhere expensive, somewhere like MIT, like Boston U, Peter kisses him slowly. 

“I mean, I want to stay together,” He’d said, nervous but determined to say it, “But I don’t expect you to just pack up and leave for me, but this is something I want to do, I need to-”

That whole ‘kissing him to shut up’ thing, really should have stopped working by now. But here Stiles was, kissing Peter and shutting up. When they finally break, Peter is smiling, 

“It really is sweet how you think I won’t follow you anywhere. And if you think I’m letting you stay in a dorm, unsupervised, you’re more insane than I’ve ever been.” 

And here’s where Stiles’ alarms should be going off. He should not want to be with someone who is more than twice his age and who scoffs at the notion of him having a wild college experience. To whom the possibility of Stiles venturing out on his own is laughable. Stiles should at least want to want to be independent, right? 

He’s had independence though, he’s practically raised himself since his mother died. Before the age of seventeen he’s lost three of his close friends, been possessed, been tortured, watched people die, practically killed a couple people, and is now dating the father of his ex sort of girlfriend. 

It’s nice, it’s really goddamn nice, to have someone who just wants to take care of him. 

So it’s a bit of a harsh reminder of where Peter’s self restraint comes from. And how exactly he defines ‘taking care’ of Stiles. 

When Peter rips some man’s guts out in the alley behind The Jungle, Stiles is reminded very suddenly that Peter very much would have killed Scott the moment he had the chance, if it hadn’t been for him being Stiles’ best friend. 

So this man, this stranger, who’d followed Stiles out of the alley, with Peter only a few feet behind, of course Peter wouldn’t see a reason not to kill him for what he did. 

Which was push Stiles against a wall, a tad aggressively sure, and he placed large, meaty hands on Stiles hips. 

Stiles hadn’t even had a chance to get a word out, maybe the dude would have responded to a ‘not interested, sorry’, but Peter’s hand was already through his back, pulling him away from Stiles. He shook his arm and the stranger flopped to the ground, entrails falling from Peter’s wrists like wet streamers. He hadn’t even had time to scream. 

Stiles was stood stock still, staring at Peter, who observed the blood dripping from his forearm with idle curiosity. His eyes were red but they were distinctly interested. Stiles didn’t flinch when Peter’s attention finally reverted back to him, noted in a very distant way that Peter took lengths not to touch Stiles with his bloodied hand as he scooped him up and put him into the car. 

Stiles sort of… zoned out until they got home, until Peter vanished into the bathroom to wash his arms and then came back to retrieve Stiles where he’d left him in the front hall. 

But before Peter could lay a hand on him, Stiles snapped out of it, letting out something of a war cry and slapped Peter’s hands away. “Oh, no, oh no, you are not fucking cuddling me right now! What the fuck is wrong with you! You just killed that guy for touching me!” Stiles was under no delusion as to why Peter had done that. 

There was nothing romantic about it, nothing protective. That was pure possessive, violent instinct followed swiftly by the urge to reaffirm that Stiles was _his_ by taking him home. That was pure crazy, nothing but the finest quality of _fucking batzo_ that Eichen House had to offer. 

Peter seemed to know that and didn’t approach Stiles, letting the teen configure his thoughts and breathe deeply for a few moments. He didn’t make an excuse, or try to talk himself out of it, which made Stiles’ heart slow a bit. Stiles slumped back against the wall and ran a hand through his hair, which was mussed from being carried around. 

So Peter had killed a guy and just left his body there. Blood soaked, guts spilling, lungs still faintly pumping for a few moments after Peter put his hand through him. Stiles could picture it clearly in his mind, the gore that had lay out in front of him, and he felt it get harder and harder to breathe. Dead, just laying there, laying there for anyone to see. 

For anyone to see. Shit. 

“We have to hide the body.” Stiles’ eyes snapped open suddenly, and Peter startled a bit, stepping back from where he’d come closer to be ready to pull Stiles out of a panic attack. 

The Alpha had gotten quite good at that, whether it be through kisses, or saying something so ridiculously violent or just ridiculous it made Stiles laugh or at least shock him out of it. But Stiles wasn’t having a panic attack, no, his thoughts were perfectly in order, he was focused. If anyone found the body, Peter would be the first suspect and they’d lock him up again. Worse. He couldn’t let that happen. 

“We need to go back and get rid of it. No one can find it.” He looked around for a clock, they’d barely been gone fifteen minutes, it was a good chance no one had come out to find it yet. They might be safe. They could dump it in the lake or dissolve it. Stiles looked up and met Peter’s eyes, which were glowing red and more than a little amused. 

He snapped his fingers in the wolf’s face. “Don’t you think that this is getting you out of trouble. We are going to have a nice long talk about spontaneous murder when we get back. And like no sex, for at least a week!” 

Peter seemed to consider this for a long moment before leaning forward and pressing their lips together in a long but chaste kiss, pulling back with a smirk, “Then let’s give you your first lesson in hiding a body.” Stiles would have called his tone teasing except it very obviously wasn’t. 

So they returned to the scene of the crime, literally, and Stiles had to quickly turn away at the sight of the corpse. Peter though, just took out the large knife he’d grabbed from the kitchen and carved the body into pieces, neatly. Despite himself, Stiles watched, curiously noting how Peter sliced through joints and tendons, putting them all in the garbage bag he’d brought. 

“Why don’t you just…” Stiles waved his hand a bit, still feeling a little nauseous but much more stable now. He could deal with this, he had to deal with this. He knew what he’d signed up for. “Rip.” 

Peter looked back over his shoulder, apparently amused Stiles had finally started to participate. “Blood splattered.” He replied, “It’s just easier to cut, creates less of a mess and more accurate results.” It only took a couple more minutes for Peter to finish up and sling the Ultra Hefty garbage bag over his shoulder like it was nothing. The bloodied knife was wiped clean on some napkins in a nearby trash bin and then they set off.

 Stiles didn’t ask where they were going until they reached the industrial district, but he didn’t have to get a word out before Peter was explaining, “Meat processing plant.” Stiles’ mouth snapped shut again, only to start giggling a moment later. 

Maybe he was hysterical now that the shock was finally wearing off, but he couldn’t help but think back to all the times that Peter had threatened dismemberment to someone who looked at Stiles disrespectfully or once a man who’d commented on Stiles being a ‘twink’. He’d dismissed it then, half as Peter’s protectiveness (which Stiles enjoyed to no end) and his desire to posture, which hadn’t faded a single bit. 

He still always bared his teeth at Scott, had jabs for everything, and was eternally sassy without any effort at all. Stiles had put the very real reality of Peter being a cold blooded killer behind a little door in his head marked ‘Things we don’t think about until we have to’. And holy shit did they have to. 

Peter didn’t seem to acknowledge his giggling, and made Stiles stay in the car when they arrived at the building. While Peter was off disposing of the body parts, Stiles was able to breathe and think things through a little better. By the time Peter (His boyfriend, his lover) got back in the car, he’d reached several conclusions. 

“I have reached several conclusions.” He said firmly as Peter put the key in the ignition and backed out on to the street. Peter was silent, which was good, as any sassy remark would have resulted in hysterical screaming. 

“One, I am not going to tell Scott, and you are not going to tell anyone.” He put one finger in the air and flicked it to count off his point, then he lifted another and flicked it too, “Two, we are going to have a nice long talk about self control and why murder is not the first option you go to when you don’t like something. And three,” A third finger in the air, “You need to stop with all the quiet because the quiet is freaking me the fuck out.”

That got a small smile out of Peter, “I thought that you needed some time to think without my interference.” There was something like relief in his voice, a tension Stiles hadn’t noted before now gone, and Stiles wondered if Peter had been waiting for Stiles to reject him, to condemn him, to try and lock him back away. 

Peter had never been a good person in the blandly moral sense, he’d always been fiercely protective towards those he loved and cared about, if he saw anything as a threat; he found a way to get rid of them. It was only after the fire that he started to confuse friend and foe, that he started to think of power as safety and safety as the ultimate goal. He didn’t care who he hurt or killed or violated to get that. 

But he was recovering, the fact that he wasn’t running or angry or defensive, the fact that he seemed to be patiently waiting for judgement to be cracked down upon him by someone he cared about was proof enough of that. Peter had never waited around to be condemned before. Peter did horrible things to protect the things he valued and it was twisted, Stiles knew that, but he felt a warm sliver of pride to be the thing that Peter cared about so deeply that he’d act so rashly. 

“Yeah, well, your big stupid face has to be good for something, doesn’t it?Talking is a good way to make use of it.” His comebacks perhaps weren’t at their peak but Peter reached over and lightly placed a hand on Stiles’ shoulder, and Stiles leaned into it, eyes falling shut a little as he just breathed Peter in. His presence, his comfort. “I don’t hate you or anything. That was not cool, at all, like supremely not a cool thing to do, dude. And I am going to be a lot angrier if there’s a second offence, but it’s ok. We’ll work on it.” 

Cause that’s what you did, when you were with someone. You work through problems you have, you support each other and try to understand each other. That was what love was, wasn’t it? It meant forgiveness and keeping calm and trying to protect one another. It wasn’t really a shock for Stiles to think that, he had already known, deep down, that he loved Peter. And this just proved it to himself. 

The adrenaline was gone, as was the shock, and Peter was lightly massaging his shoulder, making Stiles’ eyes flutter shut, but he stayed awake just long enough to hear Peter speak. 

“I suppose we will.” The Alpha murmured, “My lovely little lamb.” 

~

Stiles woke up in bed, with morning sun coming through the window of Peter’s apartment. He was curled up in Peter’s arms, nuzzling into his throat while Peter scented him. He wondered how long Peter had been awake and doing that but he knew he’d just get a vague non answer if he asked that could have meant five minutes as much as it meant all night, so Stiles just hugged Peter a little tighter to let him know he was awake. 

One of Peter’s hand ventured downwards slowly, cupping Stiles’ arse, and the teen moaned a little in his throat and rut his hips forward. 

Make-up sex was going to be awesome, he just knew it. Not that they’d really fought, but still. Stiles felt like he deserved some awesome pampering sex after what he’d been through last night. Body disposal with Peter was frighteningly efficient but still deeply disturbing. 

So he rolled his hips up against Peter’s thigh, making a low happy noise as Peter adjusted to let him rut more easily, and Little Peter seemed interested in the proceedings as well if the lump against Stiles stomach was at all telling. 

“Morning.” Stiles giggled and he could feel Peter smile into the top of his head, and then the wolf rolled them over to pin Stiles’ arms above his head, though only for a second, enough to tell Stiles to keep them there if he wanted fun things to happen. 

“Someone’s feeling a little naughty today.” Peter said teasingly, but Stiles knew the real question being asked. He did want to play naughty, wiggle and squirm like a bad boy and be disciplined, or did he just want to be fucked and taken care of. 

After last night, his little self admittance, he was thinking the latter. “I’ll behave, don’t worry, Alpha. Want you to fuck me.” He grinned at the flash of red he got at the title, and he knew that he’d guessed right. Peter was still a little primal from the kill last night, predator instincts up and running strong. 

Who knew manipulating Peter would be so easy? Though Stiles guessed it wasn’t technically manipulation, given Stiles was about as subtle as a rockslide with his shit eating grin as Peter stripped him down to nothing. 

He was in too deep to care about the wrongness of this though, enjoying this too thoroughly to mind that Peter was old enough to be his father and twisted enough to destroy Stiles if he let him. How was he supposed to care about any of that when Peter’s fingers slipped inside of him and twisted so perfectly. When he lathered his neck in slow kisses, Stiles decided he definitely did not give any shits. 

~

He told Lydia everything a few days later, sitting down over an old tome with cups in their hands (mountain dew for Stiles, Earl Grey for Lydia), even the dirty details. In her usual regal way, she took everything with little more than a pursing of lips and the raise of one well plucked brow until he was done. He had spent a good while just getting everything straight in his head, explaining to himself how exactly had gotten to this point. 

It wasn’t easy… and Peter had to coax him back to bed at two am when he got up in a burst of inspiration, scribbling down a list. But he had a clear narrative in his head by the time he had to relay it to Lydia. He paused, stuttering over the last part. The fact that Stiles had assisted Peter in literally getting away with murder. 

Not his best moment, not at all. 

“I’m supposed to tell you that you need to tell Scott.” She said after a long moment of silence that made Stiles want to start gnawing on the wood of the table. “I’m supposed to tell you that Peter should go back to Eichen house. But Kira told me about the fight in the woods. How you calmed Peter down. About his little melodramatic announcement.” She sighed, taking a sip of her tea, “You know who Peter is, Stiles, you know what he is. He isn’t better now, he isn’t going to be morally upstanding. He’s going to behave himself because you tell him to. Which means he is entirely your responsibility.” 

Stiles let out a melodramatic groan and flopped down over the table, nearly spilling his Mountain Dew and surely getting ancient ink on his cheek. Which is why Lydia immediately swatted him over the back of the head. He pushed himself back and groaned again, this one even more strained than the first. 

“I love him, Lydia. What the fuck am I supposed to do about that?” 

Surprisingly, Lydia just smirked, flicking a strand of red hair over her shoulder. “Do you know Caitlyn Siehl, Stiles?” 

Snorting he placed a hand over his eyes, “No, I don’t. What is she, some sort of psychologist?” He certainly felt like he needed one. 

She didn’t answer his sarcasm, only leaning forward a bit and waiting for him to look at her again, “When is a monster not a monster?” 

Stiles just grunted, shrugging, not really in the mood for riddles at the moment, though his mouth supplied an automatic answer for him after a moment, “When it’s been tamed?” 

“When you love it.” 

~

It’s not easy. There’s slip ups. There’s screaming fights, there’s broken walls and bedframes and windows. There’s more late night fights with Scott and plenty of bruises all around. There’s lots of long talks about appropriate responses, about how old habits don’t really work when you’re in a relationship with someone. 

There’s full moons, where Peter wraps himself in chains upon chains, where the wolf will choke himself bloody and raw and only then will lie down in Stiles’ lap and let the teen pet his head. 

There’s filthy, filthy sex, late night dancing in the midst of dry ice and strobe lights. There’s dissolving pills to satisfy Stiles’ curiosity, Peter stroking his hair through it. Stiles’ senior year goes by relatively smoothly, considering the circumstances. And when Stiles is sat in front of his computer, staring at the list of possible universities, he nearly jumps when Peter waltzes into their bedroom. 

Which is a new thing as well, how Peter’s apartment slowly but inevitably became their home. Their bedroom, their toothbrushes, Stiles’ fandom merchandise cluttered on Peter’s previously empty shelves. Comic books stacked right alongside old tomes and classical literature mixed in with scribble filled academic papers. Stiles’ new laptop (birthday gift from Peter) on his lap. 

“Have you made a decision yet? You can’t be accepted if you never apply.” Peter pointed out as he stripped off his shirt and toed off his socks to slip into bed, Stiles’ mouth going dry at how fucking domestic they’ve become. And now… Stiles has the option to fuck this all up. Long distance doesn’t work, and Stiles can’t be Peter’s anchor halfway across the country. 

Peter is a relatively easy responsibility, it’s a lot easier to take charge of someone’s actions when they actually listen to you. But if he leaves, what if Peter gets out of his chains one night, his shift is still violent and difficult to control. 

“I can’t be rejected if I never reply.” Stiles shot back even as he shifted to lean back against Peter’s bare chest, and moved his hands aside so Peter could read the spreadsheet he was working on. 

“These are all in California. I thought you were looking at MIT or UofT.” Peter knows Stiles’ colouring and sorting system so well by now it’s not surprising he’s worked out which rows Stiles sorted into his ‘most likely’ list. 

“Those are so far, coming back home every weekend would be a hassle, if impossible. Especially if I go to Canada.” Peter snorted at the explanation and Stiles turned his head to look at him accusingly, “I don’t know about you, but I’m not taking an eight hour plane to get here every Friday just to do the same Sunday.” 

“Of course not.” Peter dismissed as he shut the top of the laptop to put it away, “I’ll move wherever you go. I’m not allowing you to stay in filthy dormitories with god knows what horrid creatures or horny frat boys.” 

Stiles didn’t realize he’d been gaping until Peter leans forward to kiss his bottom lip and it soon turns into slow making out, Stiles somehow ending up on Peter’s lap. 

“Are you serious? You’d move to Canada for me?” Stiles is still processing that. Beacon Hills is Peter’s home, he’d killed for it, fought tooth and claw for the right to stay and live here. And he’d just be willing to… “What if I don’t come back? What if I want to live somewhere else.” 

Peter’s apparent lack of concern for that was disorienting, “Then we’ll live somewhere else. I’m not giving you up so easily, pup.” Stiles still secretly loved that nickname. “Where we are is hardly relevant.” 

With a laugh Stiles pressed their lips together, and the conversation dissolved in favor of passionate love making, toe curling, sheet wrenching, slow fucking that left Stiles twisted up and wrung out as Peter just looked immensely satisfied with himself. 

It wasn’t easy. But it was worth it. 

 


End file.
